


Winter Storm

by wendymr



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Friendship, M/M, Pre-naming of UK winter storms, The weather ships them!, Weather
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-16 10:11:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5824567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymr/pseuds/wendymr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“This is getting a bit nasty.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter Storm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [divingforstones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/divingforstones/gifts).



> A belated treat for Divingforstones; I'm so sorry this is late!
> 
> * * *

“This is getting a bit nasty.” James leans forward and fiddles with the demister and the rear window heater.

“You don’t say.” Robbie’d roll his eyes at his sergeant, except he needs all his concentration for driving. It’s not just the thickly–falling snow, but other people who don’t know how to adjust their driving to this kind of weather. “Just be grateful you’re not the one driving.”

“Oh, I am.” It’s steaming up inside the car, despite the best efforts of the fan, on at full blast, and James uses his elbow to clear the side window next to him. 

They’ve been on the crowded, slow–moving M1 well over an hour, and they’re not even thirty miles south of Sheffield, where they’d gone to interview a potential new witness in a cold case a local MP had requested – demanded, in other words – be reviewed. It had been snowing lightly as they’d driven up this morning, and Robbie’d had a bad feeling about the weather, but they’d checked the forecast on and off on James’s phone and it hadn’t seemed too bad. And, as James had said, they’ve had snow on and off for the past week, but never more than a couple of inches. Not even in the northern wastelands of England, he’d added, of course designed to wind Robbie up.

(Though Robbie suspects James is well aware that over the years exasperated irritation has – irrationally – given way to fond amusement. He himself is well aware that the smartarsery appears more frequently when James suspects Robbie needs distracting.)

But they’re on the edge of the Peak District here, and it’s windy and bloody cold, and every bad omen in existence seems to have combined to send them some of the worst weather Robbie’s seen in recent years. On the hard shoulder and the central reservation, the accumulation’s piling up and it’s now getting close to a foot, he’d estimate, despite the efforts of the occasional snowplough. Traffic is edging along at about twenty miles an hour, with occasional stop–starts, but every so often some idiot will try to nip down the hard shoulder, or weave between lanes. Sooner or later, someone’s going to cause an accident. The cold’s worrying, as well. According to the BMW’s temperature display, it’s dropping fast, and now hovering around seven below zero. 

Should have just stayed in Sheffield overnight, but it hadn’t even been five o’clock by the time they’d decided the so–called witness had nothing remotely helpful to offer their investigation and called it a day. The drive should only have taken two and a half hours or so, after all. Get on the motorway just about ahead of rush–hour traffic, Robbie’d thought, break the back of the journey, and stop around Leicester for a meal.

No chance of that now. It’s starting to look like they’ll be lucky to make it back to Oxford before midnight.

James has been fiddling with his phone, and now he’s making a call and identifying himself as a copper. Ah – he’s asking someone about the weather and the M1. Good thought, and with any luck he’ll find out that the roads are better a bit further south.

But James’s tone isn’t encouraging, as he ends the call with a grim–sounding “Thank you.” 

“What?” Robbie asks.

“Not good news, sir. There’s already been close to eighteen inches in Rotherham – yes, I know that’s north of here, but the bands of snow are spreading south, with no let–up predicted. There’ve already been several RTCs in this are as well as a jackknifed lorry south of here and Traffic tells me they’re preparing to close a stretch of the motorway about ten miles ahead of where we are.”

“Bloody hell.” Robbie glances briefly at the GPS. “We’re miles from anywhere here. And – bugger it. We just passed Junction 29 two miles back.”

A lorry overtakes, driving erratically and throwing grey, slushy snow up at the windows. And there’s another candidate for an RTC; another driver who should be taken off the roads to prevent him endangering the lives of other users.

“Not sure that would have been any better than staying on the motorway, sir,” James says, and a glance sideways shows Robbie that he’s studying his phone again. “We might have been able to get to Chesterfield or Mansfield, but they’re both cross–country from here on minor A–roads.” Right. Not a sensible option with this amount of accumulation. “There’s a service station just over two miles ahead. It’ll have a motel.”

True, there’s no chance of them getting back to Oxford tonight, especially if the motorway’s closing. There’s every chance they could get stuck on the road overnight, if they can’t get to the next junction before it closes and traffic backs up. And since the next junction’s about seven miles away, and according to the GPS is equally in the middle of nowhere anyway... “Good thinking.”

James is already on the phone. Sensible – they won’t be the only ones looking for accommodation. Robbie can’t concentrate on what the bloke’s saying; it’s all he can do now to see through the windscreen, and the glare of rear lights distorted with snow is murder on his eyes. Not to mention the effort of controlling the car against the gusts of wind battering against it every so often.

“Any luck?” he asks as he becomes aware that James has stopped talking. 

“Only just. Christ, sir, watch–”

“I see.” Robbie brakes sharply, carefully steering the car through the resulting skid on the slick road as he avoids the bloody moron who’s just cut in front of them, throwing more snow up at the windscreen. “Only just?” he prompts.

“One room left. It’s a double – two beds, though. I paid in full over the phone. Didn’t want to take the risk of someone else swiping it before we could get there.”

“Nice one. Though I expect they’ll have people spending the night in the lounge and other public areas. There’s going to be a lot of people stranded.” 

“Yes.” James is every bit as focused as Robbie now on the road ahead, he can see out of the corner of his eye. “Of course, if someone’s in greater need...”

“Course.” Which will most likely be the case, of course. They might as well resign themselves now to a piece of floor in a corridor.

“That’s the three hundred yard marker up ahead, sir. Not much further.”

Thank Christ for that. Robbie’s knackered, his eyes are burning and, despite the heater in the car, his extremities are cold. And he’s hungry. They’ve got cereal bars and other energy–providing snacks in the car, of course, along with blankets and other emergency equipment, but with a service station up ahead he’d rather wait and have a decent meal. Or as decent as motorway services can provide.

At least they’re already in the outside lane, so he won’t have to battle his way across traffic to change–

James shifts abruptly in his seat, and Robbie’s about to snap at him to keep still. But the bloke speaks first. “Sir! Pull over to the hard shoulder.”

He doesn’t hesitate. He’s signalled left and is already easing towards the shoulder before he asks, “What is it?”

“Driver in distress.” James is already opening his door before Robbie’s come to a complete halt.

There is another car on the shoulder, a few yards back. By the time Robbie gets out of the BMW, sinking immediately calf–deep into snow, James already has their coats and is holding Robbie’s for him. 

The cold’s bitter, and the flakes bite as they hit Robbie’s skin. He pulls the hood of his coat as far forward as it’ll go without blocking his vision, and fumbles his gloves on as he follows in James’s deep footsteps to the other car. He can’t see much more than a blur until he’s a few feet away, and that’s when he sees a slight figure kneeling, struggling with a wheel. 

“Puncture?” James says, voice raised to be heard above the traffic and the wind.

“Can’t get the bloody nuts to loosen.” It’s a woman – and, in the same moment, Robbie hears the wails of an upset child inside the car. A toddler, probably.

“Get back into your car, ma’am,” he calls out. “Police officers. We’ll sort the wheel.”

James is already bending next to her, taking the tyre lever from her. After a few seconds, he shakes his head. “Won’t work, sir. The nuts are frozen solid. And with the state of the road and poor visibility, something could crash into the car any minute. Better to take them with us to the services.”

And what James isn’t saying is the car itself provides little or no protection. It’s an ancient Fiesta, probably full of rust, and he’ll bet his next month’s salary that it’s not much warmer inside than out. James is right.

“Yeah, that’d be better. Come with us, ma’am, all right? Get your little one. James and I can carry what you need from the car. We’re coming off for shelter at the next services.”

The woman straightens and looks at him. “You’re really police?” That’s not a local accent, Robbie’d swear; not South Yorkshire or northern Derbyshire, but somewhere further south. Stoke way, maybe.

“Detective Inspector Robbie Lewis. This is Detective Sergeant James Hathaway. I’d show you me warrant card but I’d rather not take me gloves off.”

“Here.” James has his glove off and warrant card open. The woman peers at it, then nods.

“I’ve got two little ones in there.” She’s sounding panicky now, and no surprise; while they’ve been standing here, two cars have come closer to her Fiesta than Robbie’s comfortable with. 

“Had two kids meself, and I’ve just become a granddad,” Robbie says cheerfully. “I can carry one of them, if you like. James can be the packhorse.”

* * *

By the time they’re all out of the snow again, they’re soaked and shivering. The transfer took longer than expected because the woman, who introduced herself as Rachel Davies, was anxious about her car, and James suggested they drive it to the services. The short distance of a few hundred yards to wherever they park won’t do much more damage to the wheel, and is less risky than leaving the car where it is. James is behind the wheel of the Fiesta, and Rachel is in the back of the BMW with her two children, Amy and Josh, two–year–old twins.

“Bet they’re a handful,” Robbie says, making eye–contact with Rachel in the rearview mirror before focusing on pulling out again into traffic, accompanied by the grizzling of tired, hungry toddlers.

“Sometimes, yeah. Wouldn’t do without them for the world, though.” She rummages in her bag, and a moment later Robbie can hear some kind of snack being opened. “Darren was right. He – that’s my husband – said I shouldn’t risk the journey today, but I was worried if I didn’t I’d be stuck in Sheffield for days, with what the forecast said. Thought I could make it home before it got too bad.”

“And where’s home?”

“Leek. East of Stoke, yeah? Was visiting me mum for a few days – Darren couldn’t get away, an’ anyway I thought he needed a break from the kids. He works shifts and they’re not letting him get a lot of sleep.”

Robbie smiles wryly, though most of his attention is focused on the road ahead, with occasional glances back at James in the rearview mirror, checking that he’s still behind and not experiencing any problems given the flat tire. “I remember what that was like. Coppers don’t exactly have nine to five workdays either.” 

“Right.” Rachel sounds distracted; busy sorting the kids, probably, given he can still hear crying. Robbie turns the heater up again, in case they’re still cold. But that’s not what’s on her mind. “When we get to the services, d’you think your mate could try again with the wheel?”

Robbie inhales deeply. “He can try, but it won’t get you anywhere. They’re about to close the motorway.” Rachel groans audibly. “There’s been several accidents, and you’ve seen the state of the roads yourself. And were you intending to go west across the Moorlands?”

Staffordshire Moorlands, an area of bleak open space just below the hills of the Peak District, with a fair few hills and valleys of its own. It would be treacherous in this weather. Rachel’s silence appears to suggest that she realises it.

“Not sensible, eh?” At last, there’s the slip–road for the services, and he indicates right with relief. Behind him, James does the same. “Never mind. Soon get you and the little ones into the warm and you can phone Darren. And we’ll help you with the wheel in the morning.”

“When d’you think I’ll be able to get home, though?” She’s fretting, and it’s understandable, though Robbie can’t help but be irritated at her apparent belief – like most of the others currently stuck either on the road or in the services area – that the weather forecast won’t affect _them_. And then has to remind himself that he’d been of the same belief, hadn’t he? Thinking he could beat the weather and get himself and James back to Oxford safely.

“Depends on how much more falls tonight,” he tells her, trying to sound reassuring. “They’ll have to clear any crashed or stuck vehicles and then plough the snow, but maybe tomorrow some time.” For his and James’s sake, he’s hoping the same. There’s no way they can justify hanging onto their room in these circumstances, and one night on the floor or in a lobby chair here is about as much as he can put up with.

Cars are sliding all around the car park outside the main service area, and Robbie carefully steers his way beyond them towards the motel, a Days Inn. Could be worse – but it could have been a lot better, too. Still, beggars can’t be choosers, and with any luck there’ll be a restaurant inside so they won’t have to battle the elements outside.

With a stifled sigh of relief, he parks the car, and nods at James, who’s pulled into the space next to him. They still have to help Rachel and her belongings, as well as the kids, into the motel, but at least then they’ll be inside, in the warm. And there’s a chance of something to eat, even if a pint’s probably out of the question.

* * *

Half an hour later, they’ve given Rachel their room, and they’re on a waiting list for any rooms that come available due to no–shows. There’ll definitely be some of those, the manager assured them – there’ll be regular business travellers who cancelled their journeys. However, the chances of them actually getting a room are slim; first priority – with which both Robbie and James agree – is for young families and people with special needs. It’ll be blankets, a pillow if there are enough supplies, and a chair or whatever space of floor they can find. The motel’s already crowded, and there isn’t an empty table in the restaurant – they only just managed to get seated five minutes ago. 

At least they’re here, nearly dry now and under shelter and warm, with the prospect of hot food and drink. There’ll be people trapped in their cars on the motorway overnight, most likely, and the local emergency services will be stretched to the limit. There’s nothing Robbie and James can do about that; they’re not equipped to stay out in these elements, and they have no emergency supplies, and so no ability to help. They’d only be in the way.

Robbie phoned Innocent a few minutes ago to update her. She’s concerned, but not surprised. “Stay safe, above all,” she cautioned. “The latest forecast is that we’re going to get slammed tomorrow, so I’d rather you stay where you are than take risks.”

Robbie assured her he wouldn’t put either of them at risk, though he’s planning to phone Traffic in the morning for an update and see whether he’ll be allowed to follow a Transport Police car down the motorway once it’s safe for official vehicles.

“Sir, have you looked at this menu?” The horror in James’s voice has Robbie stifling a grin. He has – burgers and chicken fingers and all the usual RoadChef fare. Of course James wouldn’t be caught dead somewhere like this normally.

“It’s that or biscotti from the Costa Coffee stall outside – assuming there’s any left,” Robbie tells him with a grin.

For a second or two, James actually looks as if he’s contemplating it. Then he cocks his head to one side. “Did I tell you there’s an Indian restaurant less than a mile away?”

“No,” Robbie says instantly. “I am not leaving this hotel until I absolutely have to.”

“We could drive it in under five minutes.” That wheedling tone, especially accompanied by a pathetic expression and those blue eyes directly focused on him, is one Robbie normally can’t resist. But not tonight. 

“Sorry. I’d prefer it too,” he admits. “But, even if we could get there without sliding into a ditch – and I am _not_ walking either – there’s no guarantee it’d even be open given the weather.”

James pouts, then returns his attention to the menu, and when a waiter approaches a few minutes later he orders a bacon and pineapple burger with chips and onion rings. Robbie, ordering soup of the day and gammon and chips, just raises an eyebrow once the waiter’s gone.

James’s eyes narrow. “What?” Robbie says nothing; just keeps watching the bloke. James sighs. “I’m not going to go hungry just because the food’s going to be terrible.”

“I’ll buy you a beer if you want. Something to wash it down with,” Robbie offers, very much tongue in cheek.

“No, thanks. I saw their alcohol menu. Cheap lager and undrinkable wine.”

He can’t stop the fond grin from forming. “Sometimes, you remind me so much of Morse.”

James’s expression alters completely; all irritation’s gone, and he looks completely intrigued. “I do? I know there’s the crosswords, but that’s... well, millions of people do crosswords.”

Robbie favours the bloke with an exasperated eye–roll. “Constant quotes from some obscure bloody literary writer? Pedantry worse than that woman who wrote that book on punctuation? And don’t bloody tell me her name,” he adds as James opens his mouth to speak. “You’re just proving my point. Don’t suffer fools gladly? Morse to a T, you are.”

James looks as if he’s struggling not to look proud. “Maybe I should start saving up for a Jaguar.” Robbie doesn’t comment, and James’s face falls, turning into a frown. “Something wrong, sir? Did I... well, raise a touchy subject?”

Oh, Christ. What’s this – James hero–worshipping Morse or something? Thinking Robbie has him on a pedestal as well? “Don’t be daft. It’s just...” He sighs. “There are other similarities, man, an’ they’re not so amusing.” Too bloody worrying sometimes, in fact, and if he’s honest those similarities at least influenced his decision not to retire earlier this year. Not that he’d tell James that; he’d be informed in no uncertain terms that James is not his responsibility. 

An unreadable look replaces the frown. “I apologise for whatever it is I’ve done to annoy you, sir.” His tone’s only barely on the right side of sarcastic.

“Don’t be daft. I just worry about you sometimes, that’s all.” James doesn’t speak, but his face reads, unmistakeably, _Keep out._ “Morse was a workaholic, mostly because work was all he had. He didn’t know how to form relationships, and everyone he ever cared for left him – in the end, there was only Strange and me. He drank too much and didn’t look after his health, and he wasn’t even sixty when he died. And then only Strange and me left to care.”

And then there’s James: solitary, overly-introspective, and with no family or close friends that Robbie’s aware of. That time he’d almost been killed in Zoe Kenneth’s deathtrap, who had there been to care whether he lived or died? No next of kin listed anywhere – and he and Innocent had checked, though James’s personal mobile had been destroyed in the fire, so they’d been unable to examine that for contacts that could conceivably be family. 

James shoves his chair back. “Well, considering that a general understanding of life expectancy, even adjusted for my lamentable insistence on smoking and my... _excessive drinking_ , suggests that you will predecease me, you will have no obligation to worry about me.” He stands. “I’m going outside to indulge one of my bad habits.” 

Bugger it. He knows better than to come at James that directly, and he’s only got himself to blame. 

It’ll be sorted, though. Robbie’ll do what he needs to, and James will get over himself. It’s how they operate these days, post-Crevecoeur – because the brutally honest truth is that he needs James as much as James needs him, even if neither of them would ever admit it.

Robbie waits a minute or so, then calls over a waiter to let her know they’ll both be back shortly and not to hold their food back, and then heads out of the restaurant and towards the hotel entrance. Arctic air hits him as soon as the first sliding door opens, and then biting needles of snow strike his face with the parting of the second door.

James is under the awning, without a coat of course, and the fingers that hold a cigarette to his lips are red and raw as he takes jerky puffs. His breath as he exhales is as thick and white as the smoke. 

“Oi,” Robbie says softly. James turns his head and acknowledges him with a slight nod. “Too bloody cold for either of us to be out here, eh?” He tilts his head towards the door. “Food’ll be out soon.”

James takes a deep breath and stubs out his cigarette against the wall, dropping it in a nearby container, and then follows Robbie inside. The warmth burns a bit against Robbie’s skin as the interior door closes behind them.

Robbie doesn’t look at James, allowing him privacy to let go of what’s bothering him. But, as they re–enter the restaurant, he says, just loud enough for James to hear him, “Worrying about you’s not an obligation, man. Goes along with caring about you, that’s all.” He glances briefly at the bloke. “Just like you worry about me, for the same reason – and that’s okay too.”

James resumes his seat opposite Robbie, rubbing his hands together to warm up. Without looking up, he says, “Of course. I over–reacted, and I apologise.”

It’s typical James, taking refuge in formality and hiding his real feelings. Hiding _himself_. But Robbie won’t get anywhere pushing it now. Later, maybe.

For now, their food is coming, and then they’ll need to figure out where they’re spending the night – chairs in the lobby, or a stretch of hallway somewhere. Either way, he can’t see either of them getting much sleep.

* * *

They’re leaving the restaurant, James’s intended destination being the Costa Coffee and hoping to get seats somewhere nearby, when a commotion from the reception area attracts their attention. James glances at Robbie, a silent sigh. “I’ll go.”

There’s a queue for the coffee, so Robbie watches while he waits. A man is shouting at the front desk clerk, leaning across the desk and gesturing aggressively. From what Robbie can gather, the bloke’s annoyed that a room became available and was given to someone who arrived after he did.

James flashes his warrant card, causing the man to pause his tirade, at least briefly. Robbie can’t hear what James is saying, but after a couple of minutes the bloke leaves the desk, looking distinctly resentful.

James strolls back to Robbie, looking smugly pleased with himself. Robbie raises an eyebrow. “A fine, upstanding example of the genus Homo took exception to the fact that a family of five, including two toddlers, was given an available room despite his having been here longer. I merely pointed out that I would be perfectly happy to charge him with threatening behaviour if he wanted to continue his very vocal expression of his objections to what was a reasonable and appropriate decision based on need. He decided to seethe silently in a corner instead.”

“And you looming over him with your best intimidating stare didn’t hurt, I suppose?” Robbie nudges James with a grin.

“I practice them in the mirror,” James comments, completely deadpan. “Of course, I have to replace it at least once a week...”

* * *

The weather’s not letting up, according to the 24–hour news program on the telly, and James’s running commentary as he tracks news, weather and travel on his phone. (“Your battery will run out, and then what will you do?” Robbie points out, but James just smirks, saying he brought his charger in from the car). There’s still a chance of them getting back to Oxford some time tomorrow, but it’ll depend on Traffic getting multiple crashes cleared off the M1 – and then on the bands of snow that are heading south not causing as much havoc as here.

There’s not a lot less havoc inside: bored kids crying loudly or running about trying to burn off some energy, continual complaints from adults who should know better about the lack of rooms, the – by now – limited menu in the restaurant or the fact that the coffee shop is running out of snacks, and the fact that the powers–that–be can’t magically make the snow and stranded vehicles disappear so they can continue on their journeys. James and Robbie have had their ears bent by several fellow travellers, after word spread that the two of them were coppers, and it’s been a struggle trying to stay patient with some of the complainers. Robbie had to tow James discreetly away after the bloke said, tone apparently serious but with a sarcastic emphasis Robbie knows only too well, “Absolutely. And next time I’m speaking to the Chief Constable I will certainly pass on your scathing critique of how poorly he and his officers are doing their jobs.”

It’s going to be a corner of the open-plan lounge, it seems, when the – themselves exhausted and stressed - motel staff start passing around blankets at around ten o’clock. But then Robbie is beckoned over by the duty manager, with whom he and James have interacted a couple of times during the evening, passing on what he’s heard from traffic police and emergency services as well as helping to calm a couple of fraught situations.

“We can’t give you one of the guest rooms, sir,” the manager says, looking apologetic. “I couldn’t justify it–”

“Course not,” Robbie says immediately. “Even if you offered, we wouldn’t take it, not with families with kiddies still without anywhere proper to sleep.”

The manager nods. “Thing is, there’s a staff bedroom available. I can’t offer it to any of them–” He nods in the general direction of people curled up in chairs or on the floor. “–There are regulations, and it doesn’t have the amenities guest rooms should have. But the policy says we can offer it to emergency services if needed.” He holds out a key. “There’s only one bed, but at least you’d have some privacy, and you wouldn’t have to deal with complaints all night.”

And for the sake of James’s patience and sanity, that’s no doubt a good thing. Robbie takes the key. “Thank you. We appreciate it – but if you find anyone later who needs the room more than we do, don’t hesitate to disturb us.”

“Just don’t try too hard,” James murmurs, barely audible, as they gather the overnight bags they’d brought in with them. “Oh, I don’t mean it,” he adds as Robbie raises an eyebrow. “It’s just – the next person who decides it’s their God–given right to tell me exactly what’s wrong with law and order in this country...”

Robbie pats his arm. “Of course it is. They’re taxpayers, which gives them the right to do whatever they sodding well like. Never mind that we’re taxpayers as well.”

The room’s small, with one bed, a straight–backed chair and a dressing–table, and there’s a tiny en–suite bathroom. The bed’s a small double – it would be cramped, but Robbie’s not going to make James sleep on the floor or in that chair, and he’s doing neither himself. They’ll share.

James is surveying the room. “If I move the chair and shift the dressing–table a bit, there’s just enough room for me to stretch out on the floor.”

“Don’t be daft. That carpet’s paper-thin, and apart from that the temperature’s gonna drop overnight. You’d freeze. Think we can share the bed without causing an international incident, yeah?”

James turns around slowly. “If you’re sure, sir.”

“Wouldn’t have said if I wasn’t. Now, go and get undressed.” He nods towards the en–suite.

* * *

The bed is small; their shoulders are pressed together, but it’s not uncomfortable, at least from Robbie’s perspective. And he’s glad he insisted on sharing. The temperature’s dropped significantly in the fifteen minutes or so since they were shown to this room, so much so that he wonders if there’s a power cut. He doesn’t care enough to try the bedside light, though.

“Do you think we’ll get back to Oxford tomorrow, sir?” James’s voice, stiltedly formal, cuts through the darkness.

Robbie snorts. It suddenly sounds completely ridiculous, James lying in bed next to him and calling him _sir_. “Hope so,” he says. “The staff have been as helpful as they can in the circumstances, but I still don’t fancy being stuck here any longer than necessary.”

“Well, yes.” James sounds taken aback. “Sorry if it was a stupid question.”

It takes Robbie a moment to realise – and then it’s obvious. “Sorry, man. Wasn’t laughing at your question. Just – not sure calling me _sir_ when we’re in bed together exactly has the implication you intended.”

James is silent, but after a moment a choked laugh escapes from him. “Sorry, sir. I will endeavour to do better, sir. Awaiting orders, sir.”

Robbie tries to summon up a stern tone to squash the man’s impudence, but can’t manage it, and gives in to a bark of laughter. “Sod. Christ, if we had to explain this to Innocent...”

“Please, no.” There’s a horrified shudder in James’s voice.

“Think we’ll gloss over this part in our report,” Robbie suggests.

“That would be for the best, s-“ James breaks off abruptly and sighs. “I can’t possibly call you sir now. May I call you Robbie? Just for tonight.”

“Call me Robbie whenever you like when we’re off-duty.” He should have invited James to do so long before – however facetious the bloke can be when he wants to, of course he’s far too respectful in general to assume he can make free with Robbie’s name. “On duty... I don’t really care on my own account, but I s’pose we need to set an example for the DCs.”

“Naturally.” There’s a pause, and he wonders if James is getting ready to sleep. But then, in a different tone – diffident, awkward – the bloke speaks again. “I apologise for over-reacting earlier. You spoke out of concern, and I knew that. You’ve been more than kind to me over the years, and I shouldn’t have-”

“Don’t be daft.” He cuts off the lad’s apology before it becomes a speech. “No reason you have to put up with your boss bein’ interfering if you don’t want to.”

More silence. Then, more hesitantly than he’s heard from James in a number of years, the man says, “But you’re not just my boss, are you? Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t believe I’d be over-stepping by describing us as... friends. And – friends are entitled to show concern about each other.”

 _Don’t be daft – of course we are_ , he’s about to say, but stops; yes, he’s considered James a friend as well as a colleague and subordinate for some time now, but has he ever said as much to the lad? Course he hasn’t. And not just because it is a difficult line to tread, since he _is_ the man’s superior officer and signs off on his performance reviews.

But he doesn’t invite any other subordinate officer to his flat for meals and a beer, and would never contemplate offering any other officer his couch for the night. He might have invited Ali McLennan to his house for dinner occasionally, though that was more Val’s doing; she’d considered it only good manners, especially as Ali was single. But, although they’d gone for the usual post-working day pints from time to time, he’d never just phoned her when he’d been at a loose end, asking if she fancied a drink. And, yes, he had Val at the time, but he couldn’t see himself doing it with her now, the way he frequently does with James. 

“Course we’re mates,” he says, roughly emphatic. “Might not have said it in so many words – s’pose I just thought you knew. Me best mate, you are.”

James rolls over so that he’s lying on his side. “Didn’t want to presume. And you’re right – what you said earlier. I do worry about you sometimes.”

“Know you do. Why else would you stay up all night on the Chloe Brooks case?” He sighs softly. “Who else but you would understand how much leaving that one undone bothered me? Who else but you would I have admitted it to?” Robbie hesitates, but the fact that he can’t see James’s face somehow makes it easier to continue, to say what he’s most grateful for, above all of it. “You’ve been... smoothing the way for me almost since we met, haven’t you? Noticing what’s hardest for me, and doing your best to make it better wherever you could. Interfering busybodies like Oswald Cooper, finding out who killed Val, Chloe Brooks – and the aching loneliness, every single bloody day.”

This time, the silence stretches for longer. “Monkford was pure luck, and I was happy to do what I could on the Brooks case. You were right, anyway. It hadn’t been done right. But I haven’t – I mean, beyond that...”

Robbie rolls over as well, so that he’s facing James, even though he can’t see the man. “You know the worst part of missing Val? The emptiness. Going home to a flat with no-one there. The silence.” Not even the empty bed, so much, but the empty space in the flat, the lack of another voice, the sounds of someone else moving around. 

That emptiness was part of why he’d considered starting something with Laura. He was fond of her, after all – more than fond, after all these years, and she’s been such a good friend and support to him after Val. But that’s exactly why it wouldn’t be fair to her – he’d be starting a relationship with her for the wrong reasons, and she deserves so much better than that. But that still leaves him with the aching gap in his life, the aching silence in his home.

Under normal circumstances, he’d never admit this to James, but there’s something about tonight; something about being stranded here together, and the unexpected intimacy of sharing a bed... “Easier when you’re there. Especially when you stay the night.”

He feels James start, as if the information’s entirely unexpected. “In that case, I’ll stay the night as often as you like.” Unhesitating, and delivered in a warm, easy tone.

It’s very generous of the bloke – but it isn’t just that, is it? There’s a note in James’s voice that suggests he might want it too. “I’d like that, man. Mind, I’m not sure Innocent would approve...”

“What Innocent doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

It’s true, though it’s not altogether ethical. Though there’s another reason he shouldn’t be so ready to accept James’s offer. “Not sure I should be takin’ advantage of you like that. Don’t you have other things you’d prefer to do with your time?”

James huffs. “Do I behave as if I have other things I’d prefer to do with my time? And, please, Robbie,” he adds quickly, “Don’t tell me I should be spending time with people my own age, or finding myself a partner. Not interested. The honest truth is that I’d prefer to be with you than anywhere else.”

James’s statement is a shock, but not only because he didn’t know this is what James wants. It’s a shock because James is only echoing something he’s never allowed himself to admit before tonight – that there’s no-one else alive whose company he prefers to James’s. He doesn’t only care about the lad because they work together, does he? He doesn’t only worry about him because of echoes of Morse, either.

He should still insist that it’s wrong for James to allow himself to be monopolised like this, but instinct makes Robbie stop, makes him listen to what James is saying and how he’s saying it – and everything he’s said without words over the years. This _is_ what he wants, and Robbie’s got no right to tell him he should want something different.

He reaches out, finding James’s arm, and slides his hand down until it’s curled around James’s fingers. 

And James’s fingers curl right back around his.

* * *

Robbie’s deliciously warm as he drifts slowly back to consciousness in the morning. It’s not only because the heating’s obviously working again, judging by the faint gurgling in the radiator. It’s because a very warm, solid body is pressed up against his back, and a large, warm hand is clasping Robbie’s against Robbie’s chest.

 _James._ And, despite being snowbound close to the middle of nowhere, and the prospect of having to make it back to Oxford in bloody awful conditions – not even knowing, right now, whether they’ll get back today - all’s right with Robbie’s world. 

His ear detects the sound of something mechanical outside, a vehicle of some sort, but one that’s going slowly, and scraping... A snowplough. And he’s not hearing any of the soft thudding of snow against the tiny window, unlike last night as he was drifting off to sleep. Those are good signs. In a while, they’ll get up and go in search of breakfast; they’ll change Rachel’s wheel and make sure her car is safe to drive; and they’ll resume their own journey south on the M1, home to Oxford.

For now, though, he just wants to stay where he is, with that hand over his own. The world outside can wait, just for a little while.

Robbie burrows back into the pillow, and the hand joined with his over his heart squeezes reassuringly in response.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> There really was a very nasty winter storm in early December 2010, which dumped very significant amounts over most of the UK, and the Rotherham/Leeds area was especially badly hit. Stretches of the M1 were actually closed, due to collisions, abandoned vehicles and sheer volume of snow.
> 
> Five years on, winter storms in the UK and Ireland now have names. I think this one deserves to be called Winter Storm James!
> 
> * * *


End file.
